


they always told me that you'll never get to heaven

by s0dafucker



Series: conventional weapons au [2]
Category: Danger Days: The True Lives of the Fabulous Killjoys (Album), My Chemical Romance
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, angst babey, grief/mourning ig, i have no clue how to tag this au lmao, the boys r fuckn dead
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-29
Updated: 2018-05-29
Packaged: 2019-05-15 16:59:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14794424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/s0dafucker/pseuds/s0dafucker
Summary: guns (but no gunfights), a tragic backstory, alcoholism, and probably less crying then would be considered appropriate





	they always told me that you'll never get to heaven

party holds his gun to korse’s chest, dracs lying dead at their feet. it’s a checkmate and they both know it- korse’s gun lies in the sand, kicked aside, the two of them staring into each other’s eyes with an odd blend of respect and contempt.

his finger is resting on the trigger, holding, waiting, and jet star lays a hand on his shoulder like some kind of deity of mercy, ‘if you kill him, we’re as bad as he is.’

it’s not true, of course it’s not, but there’s so much blood on their hands from this firefight alone, so many dracs lain dead at their feet, and party swallows hard and lowers the gun.

‘run.’

and he does, party taking slow steps back to watch him go, letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.

days go by without a drac raid, weeks, the calendar at tommy’s says it’s been a month but no one dares to believe it- bl/i is dead silent and finally people start to celebrate.

people are out at night, drag races through the sand, guns left holstered during looting parties, an air of not-quite-safety fallen over the zones. dr. d stops hiding his broadcasts, declaring that it might rile the crows up a little to hear what real music sounds like. party is slapped on the back whenever they go anywhere, ghoul lifted up on crowds, free drinks and admiring glances to jet and kobra, more kids risking the getaway mile than ever. it seems like, with this one small gesture of mercy, party and jet have rescued the desert. someone graffitis the side of the dome over batt city, ten feet tall and bright red, too high for anyone to reach;  _ too good to be true. _

and it is.

the nest is packed, music blasting, everyone relaxing after a week of looting and knocking back sodas; someone’s punched the ancient tv enough times that it’s working, and life is good. the desert is dark and the nest is bright, warm, loud, alive, and things are good. party and jet are keeping an eye on the girl, an old mad gear tape playing, everyone is laughing and laughing and  _ screaming. _

the dracs come seemingly out of nowhere and party is jumping over the couch in a blur of red, shouting for everyone to get down, run, trying to keep his hand steady on his gun, and jet is ushering people out the back, holding the girl behind his back with one hand and firing with the other; they find what little cover they can, backs against the broken shelves, catching their breath, and ray holds the girl, strokes her hair. 

‘listen.’ he manages, voice rough and breaking. ‘you have to run. get to dr. d, get to cola, tell them the nest isn’t safe, tell them-’ a shot grazes the top of his head and her lip trembles. ‘tell them to run.’ 

party is nodding, tears slipping from underneath his mask, ‘find kobra and ghoul.’ he whispers. ‘stay safe, god, don’t fucking-’ he pulls her close, drowning out the sounds of the fight and holding her shaking shoulders. jet whispers that he loves her.

korse was waiting, they realize, a cold smirk on his face, expectant. 

jet’s blood goes cold as party faces him, tries to get a clear shot, doesn’t even register korse’s gun until it flashes in his direction and he falls. 

\---

fun ghoul and kobra kid don’t have the radio on on their way to the nest. they're listening to an old demo from back when party and the kid first got out in the zones and discovered what real music was- a mix that's almost too rough to just be called rough, everything out of tune and the audio unbalanced, but it doesn't matter because they love it. they're singing along, the way they do when they make fun of party, but they're definitely not making fun of him now. his jacket is lying haphazardly in the back and they yell out the window to songs about freedom.

they don't have the radio on when they make the drive to the nest, so they miss what people will later call the worst desert broadcast they’ve ever heard.

_ the screaming, god, it still- it was worse than a firefight. that wasn't a firefight, it was a slaughter. _

_ he told everyone to run, get out of the zone, hide, and then- i-i’m sorry, i- can’t. _

_ there was a kid, at the end, screaming- who was she? she sounded like she was fucking ten. _

ghoul and kobra are late to the nest- ‘fashionably late.’ ghoul says, slipping power pup into his pockets while tommy is busy with a customer; ‘late-late.’ kobra corrects, digging through an almost-hidden cooler. they barter away the junk lining their jacket pockets, party’s old lighter and cigarettes they found slipped between the car seats. tommy grumbles every time that he’d rather carbons, but he takes their shit all the same, and every time they come back it’s piled on the counters and shelves.

ghoul and kobra are too late, arriving to find nothing but empty silence and piles of white body bags.

ghoul’s breath catches. ‘no.’ he says, voice hoarse. ‘no, no, it’s not- they’re not-’ he steps forward shakily- trying to do something, prove they’re fine, prove everything’s okay, and he unzips the bag closest to him. nausea rises in his throat but he can’t stop, turning over bags still warm and looking into their glassy eyes, searching for party and jet and the girl, quiet sobs coming from behind him where kobra stands.

he can hear the worst noise in the world, this choked sobbing that sounds like something dying, and it isn’t until kobra puts his hand on his shoulder that ghoul realizes it’s him.

‘they’re not-’ he can’t breathe, it feels like someone’s crushing his lungs and kobra puts an arm around his shoulder, holds him tight until his breath comes back, holds him until they can move again. 

\---

they don’t find out until later that the crows got dr. d. 

pony finds kobra, lying on the roof because ghoul’s drinking himself to sleep inside, nursing a bottle on the couch with this helpless look in eyes that kobra can’t stand, can’t look at for too long without feeling that same shattering, and there aren’t stars anymore, but he can put his back against the uneven sheets of metal and pretend the satellites are something beautiful.

he half-expects pony to be wearing his rollerskates when he gets up there, because that’s the kind of dumbass shit pony’s known for- but he’s dressed surprisingly tame. for the zones, anyway, high boots and a jacket kobra’s only seen hanging on his chair at the station, the same desert glass shade of green medics wear. he’s never asked about it. 

‘how’re you holding up?’

‘about as well as ghoul.’ it’s a lie. he thinks he might be doing worse. he hasn’t cried since those first couple nights, the nights that made him feel scared again, gray clothes and shaking fingers that reached out for party’s hand. 

‘they’re with the witch now, ko, they’re somewhere away from this hellhole.’ he doesn’t look at pony, but he can hear something change in his voice when he says quietly, ‘them and dr. d. they’re safe now.’

something cold runs through him. he can’t find anything to say. he knows there’s probably something. jet would know what to say. jet would say something nice in that deep concerned voice of his that makes everyone feel better and jet would put his arm around kobra until everything was better and then he’s crying, sitting up so he can hold his head in his hands, and then pony’s holding him, stroking his hair and murmuring ‘it’s okay, it’s all okay,’ except it  _ isn’t.  _

he feels like a kid. its like the idealistic little shit who came charging into the desert ready to make it his is lying dead in the sand with the dracs, and the kid who’s left is hollow and empty. 

pony’s warm, desert warm, loving warm, voice like sunset and clouds and party’s eyes, and kobra doesn’t know  _ why  _ he’s like this, only that he never thought dr. d could die- he never thought any of them could  _ die.  _ it was naive, but he thought that they were safe, that all of ghoul’s prayers and their trigger fingers and the crackling of love between them like lightning could keep them safe. 

‘i just can’t believe he’s gone.’ he manages finally, once they’re sitting apart, night making the roof cool enough to touch, to sit together on the layer of metal that separates them from ghoul and his bottles of comfort. 

pony nods sagely. ‘it was like that with my brother.’ 

kobra raises his eyebrows in question. once upon a time he would’ve said he’s sorry, but he knows now he wouldn’t want to hear that either.

‘dracs got him when we were little. our mom was gone by then, so it was…’ he stops, picks at his shorts. ‘shitty. dr. d kinda took me in, y’know? i mean, he did the same for you guys, and cola. he’s good at that.’ 

‘yeah.’ 

‘not having a brother sucks, ko. it really fuckin’ sucks. just stay close with ghoul, alright? you’re all he has.’ 

\---

ghoul finds a guy out in zone 3, an acoustic selling old, heavy guns, the pre-bl/i shit, and the only thing kobra can think when he hesitantly pitches it to him is that party would’ve  _ hated  _ them- he realizes a moment later that’s probably why ghoul likes the idea.

they take the trans am out for the first time since, and ghoul’s hand hovers over the radio dial, shaking, and kobra doesn’t know if he wants to hug him or slap him. he looks pathetic, tangled hair and shadowed eyes, and he’s sweating whatever replaced his morning coffee. 

kobra nods absentmindedly and ghoul turns the dial- he gets the distinct feeling ghoul’s taken his first breath of the day. 

cola’s running the station, saying something soft and poetic, littered with the words he uses for grief, the emptiness and permanent sundown, and kobra lets himself shut his eyes and listen. 

cola’s voice is velvety soft, and he’s sure it’s something lovely about loss and family and sunsets, but exhaustion overtakes him before he can manage to listen to the words. 

he wakes up from restless sleep, dark dreams that are gray and vague and make the glare of the sun a relief. he stretches, pressing his boots against the dash, and glances to ghoul; his frame is tense, the set of his shoulders almost military and his eyes the color of bitter coffee in the slanting afternoon sun. the station is playing a band he doesn’t know, something slow and crooning about god crying, and ‘hey, how are you holding up?’ slips out before he can overthink it.

‘i, uh.’ ghoul taps the wheel. ‘i’m good.’ 

‘yeah.’ it sounds hollow. ‘me too.’ 

the acoustic ghoul tracked down is working out of a gas station, a tattooed kid with dark hair who’s tall enough to meet eyes with kobra and has a smile that reminds him awfully of the girl; crooked and paired with a sunshine glint in his eyes. his chest tightens. the other boy at the station is reading on the roof of a car, scowling slightly in the sun and tilting his sunglasses down his nose to watch them walk in. 

he sets a dark box down on the countertop and pops open the latches with a flourish- ‘pistols are fine, right? they’re basically rayguns but heavier.’ kobra glances toward ghoul; it was his idea and he could care less- and something in him recoils at the sight of him, leaning on the counter and smiling the stupid plastic grin that makes party lean against bar walls and roll his eyes. 

‘that’s perfect, sugar.’ 

the kid flushes, but he looks pleased. ‘great, i’ll, uh, get some bullets.’ 

kobra turns to ghoul, just enough to glare, but stops short at the empty look in his eyes. 

‘what?’ it’s void of any challenge it should’ve had, just a dull acknowledgement of kobra’s disapproval. 

‘he’s like 17.’ 

‘he doesn’t seem to care.’ 

‘ghoul-’ he starts, about to say what, even? what can he actually condemn ghoul for? but it doesn’t matter, because he cuts him off. 

‘look, alright, just because- this happened, doesn’t mean i can’t live my life, okay? get off my back for once.’ he wrings his hands and brushes the hair out of his face and takes a breath to say something else, but his gaze flicks back up to the counter. 

the kid gives them a lesson on handling pre-bl/i guns and it’s kind of calming to load and reload and hear the clicks of everything becoming right and fitting together and the kid claps his hands together and says, ‘i think you’ll be alright now,’ and you know what? kobra really hopes he’s right.

the trans am is emptier. he is awake now, holding a gun on his lap and watching the sun fight against the sunset, holding on to the daylight, white-knuckled and dark haired, but eventually the sky turns dark blue and kobra chances a glance to his left.

the other kid at the station told him off. no yelling or anything, just a cold stare that would’ve made ghoul deck him two months ago, but now just earned a resigned look at the sand. 

party’s shit is missing from the car. he left everything everywhere, his jewelry and cds and the occasional makeup, and now it’s all gone. they gave the witch his mask, and ghoul kept his jacket, but kobra had never bothered to touch the rest of his stuff. he couldn’t sort out how he felt about it. 

should he ask? what would he even say?  _ hey, i noticed you moved my dead brother’s shit without asking, even though i didn’t say anything about wanting his shit.  _

he wouldn’t’ve wanted party’s shit anyway. he doesn’t want his shit for the same reason he doesn’t want his jacket anymore, the same reason he burned party’s old mousekat head.

party’s dead. he doesn’t need a constant reminder that he’s never coming back, because it fucking hurts, it feels like a gunshot that never goes away, but what’s worse is the snake of a feeling that curls around his heart and whispers  _ it’s kind of nice that you’ll never be his little brother again.  _ he hates it. 

\---

he finds ghoul digging through party’s old tapes. 

it’s an accident; he’s looking for a mad gear album that he used to listen to with jet, thinking maybe he’ll send it into the station, get them to play it on his birthday- something dumb like that. he wants an excuse to listen to it again. 

ghoul’s elbow deep in a cardboard box, hair pulled back, piles of magazines and photos scattered around him. as kobra watches, lingering in the doorway, he opens a notebook- the feeling that he’s intruding takes root in kobra’s chest, but he assures it that he’ll announce his presence soon. he’s not hiding. 

ghoul flips through the notebook, expression softening, and kobra’s heart twists uncomfortably; he knocks gently on the doorway and adopts what he hopes is the posture of someone who just walked in. ghoul startles, snaps the notebook shut. 

‘hey.’ the wall goes back up in an instant. it hurts. 

‘hey.’ a beat of ghoul’s expectant silence. ‘i was just, uh, looking for some of my old tapes.’ he nods and sets the notebook down, a  _ don’t let me stop you  _ gesture that makes kobra want to throw himself in front of the nearest drac patrol. having to fill the silence with ghoul is like falling after you think you’ve steadied yourself- clumsy and unsettling and wrong. 

ghoul’s almost out the door when he pauses and asks, faltering, ‘why don’t you wear your jacket?’ his eyes trace the badly medicated sunburns lining kobra’s arms ( _ batt city skin isn’t meant for the sun, is it, rat? _ ).

‘i hate red.’ 

‘red’s your favorite color.’ 

he holds ghoul’s stare until he backs off. it’s mean, he knows it is, but he thought ghoul of all people would get it. the uncomfortable feeling is stronger than ever, but the bee sting twinge of irritation is pushing it aside. ghoul walks out with his hands in his pockets and a kicked puppy look that kobra wants to punch off his face. 

he settles down by the box and the piles ghoul made and presses his palms into his eyes until he sees sparks. it takes him a long while to open them again, to unfold himself and start to think again. he’s too afraid to open the notebook, worried he’ll see into party’s head and never be able to get out of it, scared that whatever put that misty-eyed look on ghoul’s face will fuck him up somehow. 

he spends the night in bed with jet’s tape. 

**Author's Note:**

> woah check it out lads im writing twice in a row for the same au  
> im just. real attached to it lmao the third part is a wip rn 
> 
> big s/o to [corruptedkid](https://archiveofourown.org/users/corruptedkid/pseuds/corruptedkid) for being fuckin great and helping my motivation for this series like nothing else dhgjfsjksdfh'ksd


End file.
